Dead Man
by ShadowLordCC
Summary: DESTIEL AU: Castiel doesn't hate his job. He doesn't hate the hours he spends alone, and he certainly doesn't hate the money he gets. What does Castiel do? He... 'eliminates' people. However, Castiel's latest assigned target, is proving to be a bit of a problem.
1. Job Done

Kneeling on the roof top, garden surrounding him, twigs and sticks scratching uselessly at the material of his pants and jacket, Castiel waited. He stared down the barrel, lining up the weapon, taking into account wind and the movement of his target. Everything would go as planned, as everything always did. No room for errors. No doubts nestled in Castiel's mind. He knew what he was doing. He had done it a thousand times. No questions asked, Castiel would hunt through the crowds, stalking his pray, learning their habits, finding the opportune moment. He would map out the victim's days in his mind. Weeks, he would study them, learning when they were alone, when they were in large crowds that would make it difficult to determine which of the jostling bodies had held the knife.

He had the man in sight now. He was slumped over a table, outside. The trajectory of the bullet would be measured and tracked back to the very roof Castiel was perched on, but any evidence of his brief stay in the garden beds would be gone, or lost amongst the branches. The man sitting below was eating a meal, something so completely ordinary, that it would no doubt come as a shock to feel the sharp stinging of the bullet. If it hit his shoulder, the man would have time to call out before a second bullet cracked through his skull. Yet another reason why Castiel would have to be careful.

No one would hear the gun going off. It would appear as a very loud sneeze to anyone on the floor below, but it wouldn't even make a sound as it slipped into the man's skull and sent his head tipping into his soup.

It would start with a scream, maybe a waitress who had gone to see if he needed anything. But then the noises would build, the screams, the cries all layering over each other in a glorious symphony of terror and chaos.

That is when Castiel would take his leave, brushing away his footsteps, searching for any thread that may linger on spiked stems and branches. He wouldn't leave a flake of skin, not one stray hair to lead any one to him. He would slip from the roof, circling back down the stairs stuck to the outside of the building, round the back, blocked from view. He would set the weapon down in a bin, buried where it would take a while to find, no finger prints on it, bullets impossible to trace. He would shed his mask, his hood, his gloves, folding them carefully into his backpack to be either incinerated or used another time. He'd take his jacket off as well, and tuck it away, leaving him in a tight grey shirt with a logo and some words splashed across the front in red. He would be safe. No one would find him. No one would connect him to the killing, and Castiel would blend into the crowd, shoving his way through before stopping and gawking in terror at the dead man. He would show the appropriate response, though he would feel nothing but fiendish glee at the sight of his handy work. Another job completed, more expenses and bills paid, with some money left to splash.

Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly as he focused on the man, waiting until few people were around, waiting for the right moment. He squeezed the trigger without so much as flinching, though there was a momentary jolt as the gun kicked back.

Right on target, a hole was blown through the back of the man's head and he fell into his soup, liquid splashing up, little chucks of vegetables and meet falling to the table around him as the wound started seeping, matting the hair with blood.

Castiel smiled to himself and searched around quickly for loose threads as he waited for the scream.

There it was. Shrill and horrified, girlish, close to a sob. More followed after it, but it was that one purely terrified sound that echoed in Castiel's head.

He smiled. It was not a kind smile, just a tug on one corner of his mouth that contrasted with the fierceness in his eyes. He stood and swept over the area, destroying footprints and removing anything that might betray him. He was careful, going over things once, twice in a minute, still thorough. He took his backpack, the weapon, and rushed down the stairs.

Soon, he was out in the street, bumping shoulder to shoulder with panicked civilians, putting on his best 'concerned' face, though really, he didn't care. He let himself be jostled about, get lost amongst the crowd. He slowly disappeared in the mob, dark hair blending in, not standing out. Without his mask or his black jacket, he would never be seen as suspicious, wouldn't draw any attention.

It was a simple job. He would never say that he enjoyed it as such, but he certainly didn't hate it. It got him the money he needed to live, and enough for extras. Of course, he still kept up his appearances at his everyday job, filing papers, continuously pushing his unnecessary glasses up his nose. It was a monotonous job, with boring little tasks and minimal socialising, which was how Castiel liked it.

In a few minutes, he was around the corner, and he knew he would be safe. Job done. He adjusted the bag on his shoulders and slowed to a calm walk, still trying to seem a bit shaken, as any normal person would after seeing a guy's head blown open. He moved down into the pass under the road, taking the short cut. He needed to get home and have something to eat. He was always famished after a job.

Castiel let out a huge sigh as he entered is apartment, neatening up a pile of books by the door, getting everything in line. The front room was filled mostly with cardboard boxes, parts of his life that he couldn't be bothered packing away. The a few books lined the walls, and a large TV hung on the wall with some DVDs scattered beneath it, but that was the only indicator that someone lived in the large space. His apartment was spotlessly clean; clothes packed away neatly his wardrobe with a large padlocked box of weapons stored under them, not a speck of dot gracing the surfaces.

Castiel moved inside and emptied out his backpack, putting things away in their rightful places.

As he did every night, he microwaved some left-overs from the week before, and slopped it onto a plate with some freshly cooked rice. He poured himself a glass of wine, and as always, he sat down at his deliberately small table alone, just as he liked it.

Castiel enjoyed his own company. He never knew how to act around people. There had been times when he'd considered getting a cat, but he knew that he would constantly forget to feed it, and it would just be another thing that he had killed. He had bought himself some goldfish once, but they hadn't lasted more than a week. With two jobs, Castiel wasn't home very often, and when he was, it was just to have a meal and go to sleep. He had no time for pets. He had no time for friends.

He finished his meal, sat down on the couch and read a few chapters of a book that he didn't particularly like, and before he knew it, it was seven pm, and he was tucked up in bed. Tomorrow he would start the process over again. Find his target, learn them, determine a pattern, and then in a week or two's time, he would strike.

* * *

His new target was a man named Dean Winchester. He worked as a mechanic, had no family apart from his younger brother and his father. He was an ordinary man with an ordinary job, and that made Castiel wonder what he'd done to deserve this special attention, but he never asked. It wasn't his place. He followed Dean for one week, trailing him in crowds, watching his house day and night to determine when his fixed appointments were. He always stayed a safe distance away, and would leave a day where he wouldn't follow him at all, just so the man wouldn't be so suspicious. Castiel went into his day job, and spent another dreary day in perfect solitude, sorting out a mess of filing cabinets. He would hardly speak to anybody, and no one would mind.

After another week, Castiel was ready. He had determined his weapon. A small switchblade would be impossible to see in the crowded underground, and Cas would be able to hide the weapon in his coat until he could dispose of it safely. He would bump into his target as planned, and stab the small blade into the man's side in one swift motion, hitting an internal organ. If the crowd was thick enough, he could afford a few stabs, securing his death in a matter of minutes, no time at all to be saved. That would be the ideal situation, but Castiel never knew exactly what would happen until he was there.

He had followed Dean from his small, messy, bottom story apartment, tailing him from far behind until they had started their descent.

Castiel hadn't expected it. The situation had never even crossed his mind. No one ever talked to him. No one ever even noticed him. Not in a crowd like that. He'd specifically chosen the crowd in the subway, as the jostling bodies all pushed angrily in a hurry to get on the train to their destination. He was wearing ordinary clothes, a tan trench coat over jeans and a plain shirt. No one would look twice at him.

Or so he thought.

He'd spotted the man easily. His shoulders were hunched and the leather jacket he always wore was slightly too big. His knees appeared to be a bit of a hazard, and he kept receiving glares from strangers he had bumped into. This was what he did on every Saturday. He made his way onto the train, travelling to meet up with his brother.

Castiel walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, one wrapped around his blade, ready to strike out, glancing at Dean out the corner of his eye. He made mental notes about the man's speed as he walked along the platform, in order to get his timing right. He could not afford to mess this up.

Then something happened.

As Castiel found himself bumping into Dean, and both men were stuck in the crowd, slowly shuffling, he decided to take the chance. He flicked out the blade, slowly took his arm out of his pocket, and looked at Dean one last time before he made his move.

Dean was staring at him. His green eyes were wide, locking onto Castiel's. He smiled a stupid, crooked grin that sent a cheeky sparkle to his eyes. "Don't you just wish you could clear a path?" he asked, voice low, soft, smooth.

Castiel told himself to do it, to seize the moment, but he couldn't... He'd never been close enough to hear the man speak, and he founding himself wanting to hear more of his words. His grip on the blade loosened. He felt his mouth fall open and he racked his brains for something to say, but he was lost for words, lost in those eyes. He cleared his throat and nodded, shouting at himself mentally. Castiel tried to keep going, to pretend that he hadn't really noticed Dean Winchester saying anything. He ignored the man's gaze, looking straight ahead, heart sinking.

Dean sighed and his smile faded. He turned back to start shoving his way through the crowd. "Let me through!" he roared. "Police!" He grinned to himself as the crowd parted and he made his way through, flashing a smile in Castiel's direction. "Not really," he added, walking past a shouting woman as he pushed his way onto the packed train that had just pulled up. With a beeping sounds, the train doors slid closed and Dean was rolling away, off to meet his brother.

Castiel had missed his chance. He couldn't believe it. He'd messed up. He'd been found out. _No_, he reminded himself. Dean had merely seen him. He hadn't known of Castiel's intent.

That brought Castiel back to the real question. As he stood still amongst the churning of bodies, he couldn't escape it. Why had he frozen? Why hadn't he taken his chance and finished the job. _It had been his eyes,_ he thought. Those soft, wise eyes with all that life in them…

Castiel's heart thudded in an unfamiliar way and he turned on his heel, pushing back against the crowd like he was swimming against the current. He forced his way through and stepped lightly up the steps; jumping the turnstile and heading back out into the open, in need of air. The image of them was burned against his retina, two green, kind eyes, staring at him from the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked.

Castiel was in trouble, and he knew it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This was a request from Destiel101 ^_^ I hope you like it. That goes for ALL of you. XD This is mostly up now for feedback and stuff. If no one likes it, I won't continue. :P


	2. As Good a Plan as Any

He told himself he would do it later. He told himself that there would be other opportunities, that Dean Winchester would not recognise him if he saw him on the street. Castiel would not be found out. Castiel would be safe.

He lay down in bed and stared up at his ceiling, trying to shake off the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong. He took a deep breath and flipped the blade around in his hand. Perhaps he would be able to get close enough to try again. He would have to be more careful about it. He wouldn't be able to freeze up. If he failed again, someone would realise that he was taking too long, and then he would be in trouble.

He'd never frozen up like this before. Not once had he let his target get to him. It was unusual. Unsettling.

* * *

The next morning, after his usual amount of sleep, he skipped breakfast and went in search of the man he had failed to kill. He wasn't going to talk to him or anything. He just wanted to see him again. It was a nagging feeling inside him, something that told him to meet the man, to learn things about him, and Castiel found that strange.

From his extensive planning and watching, Castiel knew that Dean would be at his work. He would be at the garage, fixing up a car or listening to loud music or trying to sell something. Castiel sat on a bench a safe distance away, just looking at the man, trying to figure out when and how he could make things right. When would he be able to kill Dean…? What would he use? He couldn't go with the knife again. It was apparent that Castiel would have trouble with close range weapons. Perhaps he could go to the café Dean frequented and find a way to poison his drink. That would be too easily traceable… He would have to find some other way.

Castiel sighed, resting his chin on his clasped hands, and gazed down.

"Hey…" It was a voice, much closer by than Castiel expected.

He looked up from the dark fleck of stone in the concrete and found himself staring into those hypnotising green eyes. He tried to stutter out an answer, and found himself getting to his feet and stumbling away.

"I met you yesterday, didn't I?"

Castiel shook his head furiously. This couldn't be happening. Dean couldn't know him. He couldn't do this.

"You know, when someone asks you a question, it's usually polite to answer them." Dean raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.

Castiel tripped, stumbling and turning to run.

Dean caught his arm. "Hey, it's okay… I'm not a creep… I work just over there." He pulled back and held his hands up in surrender.

Castiel turned and stared, the memory of Dean's hand on his arm burning. He said nothing. Castiel didn't enjoy conversations unless they were necessary. In this situation, they were the furthest thing from necessary. He just shook his head again and looked away.

"What, can't you talk?"

"I can," Castiel muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket and spinning on his heal.

"You're not following me or anything creepy like that, are you?" Dean called after him before letting out a frustrated sigh and heading back to where the car, the tools, and his music sat, waiting for him.

Castiel let out his breath as he walked away, head spinning and aching as he glanced back over his shoulder. He was a dead man. If he was compromised… if he failed to kill that man… he would be eliminated for certain. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together as he stalked away. He once again started thinking of the different options. He could pass the task onto someone else, but that would shame him, and it would be unlikely that he would be given another job for a long while. No. Castiel had to do this himself.

With a start, Castiel realised that his hand was wrapped tightly around something in his pocket. He pulled it out to see that his knuckles had turned white as he gripped the pocket knife. His fingernails dug into his hand, broke through the skin and caused little drops of blood to swell up and slide away, streaking down his wrist. He let it drop and stretched out his fingers as he heard the clatter of the knife hitting the pavement. Castiel sucked in a deep breath and held it, before letting it out slowly through his nose. This had never happened to him before. He had never even been spoken to by a target. The strangeness of his situation made his headache worse.

He kicked the pocket knife away angrily, sending it spinning into the garden bed and pushing up the soft earth. He frowned to himself as he kept walking, and chose not to pay attention to where his feet were taking him until he was standing in front of the tall building that provided his life with some normalcy. It was a building that kept him grounded, reminded him that he had to keep up an appearance.

Castiel adjusted his jacket and the layering coat before he pushed his way through the glass revolving doors and stumbled out into the spacious lobby. The building was immaculately clean, and the white floor so highly polished that Castiel could clearly see frown lines on his forehead in his reflection. He paused for a moment in an attempt to smooth them out, shaking his head as if he could send all his worries flying out his ear.

As he stood, a hand was pressed in his, for just a moment as someone shuffled by, pretending to brush against him accidentally. As the hand moved away, a small piece of paper was left behind, folded perfectly in half three times and sealed with a small, round, black sticker.

Castiel closed his hand around it carefully and walked forwards, adjusting his original course to head for the elevator. He knew what the letter would say. As he stepped inside and jabbed his finger at one of the buttons, white glowing ring jumping to life, Castiel unfolded the paper, plucking the sticker off carefully.

It said what he had thought it would.

His presence was required urgently at the specified floor within the next ten minutes.

He paused for a moment to wonder what would have happened if he just stayed seated on the bench by the side of the road, and shuddered. They would have made a home visit, skilfully picked the lock to his apartment and pressed a hand to his mouth in case he was inclined to call out when he woke.

Castiel shook off the thought and shut his eyes for a moment in order to get his story straight before the elevator doors opened with a chime. He stepped out and turned left down the corridor with carpet the colour of a ripe blood plum and walls painted so dark that it could almost be classified as black. This was the basement level of the building. It was the level that sent a shiver up his spine and made him feel uneasy. As he walked, he cursed it. Sometimes he just wished that the normal thing in his life could have stayed completely normal and separated from that other world. He stopped in front of a smooth, black door and knocked once before he noticed that it was hanging ajar and pushed it open with a creak. The door opened to a round room with a low ceiling and a collection of polished wooden furnishings.

Behind the large, curving Desk that rested six feet from another plain black door, sat a woman, back straight but head low as both hand and pen skidded across the paper lying flat, ink following behind in the woman's curling handwriting. She didn't look up, and she didn't hear Castiel's footsteps as they were silenced by the covering carpet and intricately patterned rugs.

Castiel cleared his throat and the woman's head snapped up, face pinched into a disapproving look as hair dangled in front of her eyes and her pen hand stilled. "Naomi," Castiel greeted her with a stiff nod. "I did not realise that you were working today."

She narrowed her eyes and sat the pen down, then moved on to shuffle around the papers on the shining desk. "Castiel. I have not received an update from you in a long time," she said curtly, without commenting on her presence. "Have you dealt with your latest target?"

Castiel fumbled for words, but felt as though he were reaching out uselessly for them, hand stretching and straining as though he was a child that didn't realise he couldn't get what he wanted. He sighed and took hold of the only word within reach. "No."

Naomi's eyes widened in clear surprise as she tapped some documents against the desk and set the down again, pale, thin, bony hands clasping seriously in front of her. She cocked her head to slide slightly, giving herself the appearance of a curious bird. She cleared her throat and smooth back her hair, lip gloss coated lips stretching into something that was probably meant to be a smile. The expression didn't suit her.

"Give me time," Castiel said, mouth popping open slightly as he attempted to tear his gaze from Naomi's dark, stormy eyes.

"What was that?" She snapped, a sick sweetness leaking into her voice. It didn't belong there. She rose behind her desk and pointed one manicured fingernail to the velvet seat before her.

Castiel sat down obediently. He often wondered if Naomi would make him sit down just so that she could feel taller than she was.

The woman leaned her hands on the desk, on either side of her neatly stacked documents, and stared down at Castiel. "You want _time_?" Her voice grew hushed, but it was packed full of poison.

Castiel cringed back into the chair. "The man spoke to me," he admitted as if he had no control over the words tumbling from his mouth. "He recognises me now. I need time. To get it right."

Naomi's face lit up, eyebrows rising, the smile sticking on her face a fraction more naturally. She moved back and clapped her hands lightly in a strange sort of glee before she clasped them behind her back. "You are thinking cleverly about this, Castiel." Her smile grew and she stretched out her neck with a few loud popping sounds following the movement. "Yes, yes, yes," she laughed to herself. "Get to him, Castiel. Insert yourself in his life and then take that life from him… It would ruin his brother." She chuckled and moved from around the desk.

"His brother?" Castiel followed Namoi's movements cautiously with his eyes, not daring to move.

Naomi ignored his question. "Oh you _are_ clever, Castiel." One skeletal hand clapped on Castiel's shoulder, ruby red fingernails digging into him slightly.

Castiel ground his teeth together to keep from swatting her hand away. He nodded slowly, wrapping his mind around Naomi's thoughts. _I can do that,_ he thought to himself. It was as good a plan as any, and he didn't want to admit to Naomi that he hadn't really had a plan at all. "Yes, Naomi," he said, voice strained.

Naomi released him with a little pat and her distorted smile faced, leaving her face slightly round, almost friendly, but covered in serious lines that stopped her from being any form of attractive or kind. "Go. I will check up on your progress weekly. I'll get Zacharia to visit you." She waved her hand dismissively and went back to her papers.

Castiel sat in silence for a moment longer before he realised that Naomi wasn't going to acknowledge him any further. He quietly scraped back the heavy chair and listened to the faint scuffling of his shoes against the carpet as he left the round room and the old wooden furniture behind him.

As he made his way out of the dim, richly decorated basement level, and back up to the bright, busy lobby, Castiel felt his head spinning. He walked as if in a daze to the filing room and started on the job he performed at least three times a week. He sorted out files and documents and books almost without thought as his mind turned to the real problem.

Dean Winchester.

Castiel would have to… _become friends with him._ The thought sounded alien in his mind. The closest people to being his friends were his brothers and sisters, but he hadn't spoken to most of them in over two years. Castiel would have to change. He would have to talk to the man he was planning on killing, and though the last part seemed easy enough, the first would quite possibly drive him insane.

Castiel slumped on the grey carpet, running the cover of a particularly old and musty book beneath his fingers over and over in an attempt to clear his mind. He would start the process tomorrow, he decided, and set the book down.

He thought back to Naomi's falsely kind face, and the startling seriousness behind her eyes, and he shivered, goose bumps rising on his arms.

_Failing her, would mean death_.


	3. The Target

Castiel was hovering next to the garage, pressed against the wall, staring off into space and attempting to think of a way he could make it work. He needed a way of introducing himself, of not coming off as creepy. So far, nothing had come to mind.

"You _are_ stalking me, aren't you?"

Castiel jumped and spun around to stare at the man that had spoken. Up close, he could see the light dusting of freckles, smudges of engine grease on his face, the slightly sunburnt cheeks. His eyes found Dean's, and stopped. "I… I'm not, I promise," he stuttered out, feeling much too close to the man.

Dean let out a chuckle, deep, throaty, entirely natural. He clapped a dirty, calloused hand down on Castiel's shoulder as he shook with laughter. He seemed to find something extremely funny, though it was not obvious what. A half grin lit up his face and made little crinkles form at the corners of his eyes.

"What?" Castiel demanded and he pushed Dean's hand away and attempted to dust off his coat. "What is so funny?" He finally managed to look away from the man and stare down at his feet. Nerves were bouncing around inside him and mixing with fear, and excitement, causing blood to rise into his cheeks. He shook his head and examined the coating of dust on his smooth, black shoes. He'd rather look there than at the man he knew he would have to betray.

The mechanic just looked at him curiously for a long time, laugher dying down to an amused, light, shuddering breath that tousled Castiel's hair. Dean shook his head and moved back into his working space.

Castiel snapped his head up and stared at the sloping piece of sidewalk that lead into the garage. He just stared, hands clasping and twisting nervously behind his back as the nerves tried to spill out of his throat in word form.

"You coming?" Dean's head poked around the corner, eyebrows raised. He held out on hand, clasping onto the neck of a beer bottle in offering.

The words came as a shock. Castiel just stood and blinked in confusion for a while before he reached a hand out to receive the cold bottle, and stumbled forwards as if in a trance.

The garage was a mess. There were piles upon piles of grease stained cloths and pieces of newspaper littering the grey concrete floor. The low shelves were cluttered with tools and empty beer bottles. There were a few pots of coloured paints and glues sitting on one of the higher up shelves, coated in a thick layer of dust. The shelves themselves were roughly hand-carved and sat against the walls on odd angles, the objects they held cluttered more towards one end than the other.

Castiel looked around slowly, saw dust tickling at his nose. He let out a sneeze as he walked further inside, the hand not holding the beer bottle running absent-mindedly over surfaces, making little trails in the dust. "It's not very clean," he mumbled, fighting an urge to clean it up. He looked to Dean, who was leaning back against the car parked in the centre, arms crossed over his chest, shirt rising slightly to reveal a small strip of skin.

The man chuckled and took a swig of his beer, shaking his head slightly and letting dust rain down to get caught in his eyebrows and eyelashes. "It's a workplace. If I tried to keep it spotless, I wouldn't get anything done." He looked up at Castiel and ran his tongue over his lips.

Castiel hurried to look away, biting at the inside of his lip.

"I'm Dean, by the way." Dean dusted a hand on his pants and held it out towards Castiel. He had that half grin stuck on his face again, and his eyes were sparkling in the light cast by the bulb hanging precariously by a wire and swinging slightly on the ceiling.

"Castiel," he replied, not taking the hand, just hugging one arm around his torso and sipping at his drink. He cleared his throat awkwardly and clenched his jaw as he struggled to decide what to say. "I would never be able to work in here," he mumbled finally.

"No? What do you do then, Cas?"

Castiel flinched slightly at the nickname, almost cringing. It was odd to hear someone shorten his name like that. A few of his siblings used to do that, but not any more. "I… I work in an office building. I sort out files and things."

"Sounds awful, man. My condolences." Dean grinned properly, the other half of his mouth stretching up to match. He held out his bottle in a gesture before draining it and setting it down beside the others. "Good pay?"

"Not particularly." Castiel chewed at his lip and scratched at the back of his head. He wasn't used to having to think too much about what he was going to say. In this case though, he couldn't give away any information as to his other occupation, and he couldn't say anything that would damage his chances at getting close to Dean. This was Castiel's last chance.

They fell into a silence, glancing at each other awkwardly ever now and then, both praying that the other would say something.

It was Dean who finally spoke. "Hey, Cas? I don't suppose you could come over here and help me with something, could you?" He scratched at his head, ruffling his light brown hair in a way that left it spiking up at odd angles. He pushed some of the empty beer bottles to the side and pulled out a few things.

Castiel stared at the hunks of metal curiously as Dean cradled them in his arms and waved a hand in a wild gesture. He moved forwards, pushing up the sleeves of coat, jacket and shirt before nodding to Dean. His eyes widened marginally as he felt a lump of cold, rough metal being pressed into his hand.

"Come over here and lift this," Dean instructed, pointing to something in the parked car's engine.

Castiel stared into it, motionless, hand wrapped tightly around the bar he was holding. The engine was so complicated that it made Castiel's head hurt. His eyes followed wires and tubes and connection and they all seemed to join up together in some perfectly confusing way that somehow led to the engine working. Castiel felt green eyes on him, and a dirty hand on his shoulder, waiting expectantly. Castiel hurried to use the bar in his hands to lever up the thing Dean had been pointing at, but it was stuck. "It's not moving," he huffed.

Dean made a thoughtful face, eyebrows knitting together and forming a few little creases that remained lightly even when his expression changed. He stood side on and placed both hands on the rough metal, the thumb of on hand overlapping with Castiel's. "Just got to put your back into it," he said. "One… two… three."

Both mean heaved their weight onto the bar, and the previously unmoving object lifted. As it did so, the bar slipped out, and Castiel and Dean fell backwards, the metal rod flying through the air to land with a clang on the cold concrete.

Castiel reflexively reached out to stop himself from tripping, but the only thing close by was Dean, and Dean was falling too. He stumbled back and landed with a crash, slamming into a few home-made shelfs and getting poked awkwardly with screwdrivers and wrenches. "What did that accomplish?" he asked breathlessly as he hurried to right himself and dust off his backside.

Dean chuckled and pulled himself to his feet. He just shook his head a little bit and went back to leaning over the car's engine.

A smile found its way onto Castiel's face, and suddenly the man felt a pang of guilt. He never felt that. He never felt guilty. He stayed detached. He didn't care. He never cared. He shut his eyes and tried to convince himself that he wasn't feeling bad about killing Dean. It was just another day on the job. Dean was just another target. The feeling of guilt knocked the air from his lungs and reached out a hand to lean against the wall for support. His shoulder clashed with one of the wonky shelves housing the paint, and upset the delicate balance.

Dean turned just in time to see a pot of cream paint empty over Castiel's head, and his booming laugh was echoing around the fairly small space for about five minutes before Castiel's glare silenced him. "You better get out of here, Cas, or one of us is going to wind up dead," he wheezed.

Castiel wiped the paint from his face and slumped hopelessly. How did he ever make it in his line of work? How had he possibly been so successful with targets in the past? Cas felt the weight of his pocket knife in his… well, in his pocket. On his way back, he'd made a stop off in the garden bed and had looked around for it. The metal of the handle had been glinting in the sun, and it hadn't been so hard to find.

It would be so easy to do it. So easy to just pull it out, flick out the blade and slide it into Dean's chest. It would stop any further guilt from blooming in Castiel. It would stop him from getting too close. It would end it all, and Castiel could get back to his life.

Castiel's fingers had closed around it slowly as he'd thought, but then a towel was on his head, rubbing at his scalp and hair, and Castiel was snapped out of it. The worn out old rag was slowly tugging the slowly dying paint from his hair. Castiel frowned and took it from Dean's hands.

Dean cleared his throat and let it go with little resistance. "You've got to be more careful, buddy," he said, voice softening as he moved to pick up the spilt paint tins. "I don't know why I had these sitting around anyway… I don't use them." He continued talking, moving from subject to subject and Castiel found himself wondering if the man had an off switch.

He'd had his fill of socialising for the day, and zoned out, thinking back to Naomi's attempted sweet voice, and the threat hiding behind it. Castiel looked back to Dean and frowned. He knew how to switch the man off. Choke him now, stab him, wait until later and shoot him. There were so many options. He sighed. Naomi seemed to have something against Dean's brother, and her instructions had been clear.

"Cas? Cas, buddy, you okay?"

Castiel looked up, guilt flooding through him once again. "Yes, Dean. Of course. I have to go now, Dean." He said and turned without another word. There was a hand on his arm and he could picture the huge green eyes staring at the back of his head. He felt as though Dean would know. Dean would figure it out. Those eyes would look right inside Castiel's head, and he would know everything. Castiel kept walking, leaving a confused Dean behind him. He left and walked, and walked.

When his feet started to ache and the sun started to sink below the horizon, casting everything in a pink glow, Castiel went home.

He warmed up another pre-cooked meal and sat at one end of the small table, eating slowly, starting to form a plan in his mind. When he finished his food and cleaned up, he went over to a cardboard box labelled 'stationary' and reached inside, lifting up the individual piles until he found a journal and a pen. He moved back to the small square table with its cheap wooden top, and sat down, the journal open in front of him.

By the time he went to bed, he had a plan all worked out in neat steps. They were as follows:

1. Go out for a beverage with Dean Winchester. This will ensure a sense of trust and camaraderie

2. Find a way into Dean Winchester's home. Preferably via invite, though a fabricated emergency would suffice.

3. Come up with an excuse to be left alone to search the house. This could be something as simple as being excused to go to the bathroom.

4. Search Dean Winchester's house. Find things you have in common, or that you can pretend you have in common.

5. Use said common interests to become Dean Winchester's friend.

6. Spend no more than 3 weeks as his friend, gain his trust, and learn any secrets he has.

7. Kill Dean Winchester – Stab him, poison him etc. Something quiet.

8. Don't fail.

Note: In order to assure continued survival, extra jobs may need to be taken on. This must be kept a secret from the target. If he suspects, you're dead already.


	4. Step 1

Castiel felt strange, hovering around outside the garage and waiting to see Dean again. He wasn't in, currently, but the loud rock music was blearing from a stereo. He moves it to have a look at it. The garage was much more spacious without the car parked there. There was a slightly darker patch of concrete where some oil had obviously stained it, slightly brown and not very nice looking. Castiel stared down at it for a moment, picture Dean underneath a car, grease smeared over his muscular arms as he struggled to get things right. He listened to the music blaring away, and he tried to put his finger on what it was. Some old, classic rock band that Castiel had never heard before.

He was lurking, trying to gain Dean's trust somehow, though it was proving rather difficult. Step 1, was to go out for a drink. It had seemed simple enough when he'd scribbled it down, but as he stood in the cold, empty garage, he started thinking that maybe it would be harder than he had thought. With a sigh, Cas stepped back out into the small street, waling opposite one story houses that all looked identical, the only difference being the hideous colour they were painted. He turned left, leaving the large roller door and the garage behind him, and taking exactly twelve steps out onto a busier road, lined with stores and cafes. A main road. He vaguely remembered one of his sisters taking him to this street when he was younger, to buy new shoes. Cas looked down at the shoes he was wearing now, and could almost imagine 6 year old him, toddling around in shoes that hurt his feet, but flashed colours when he walked. Those shoes he had refused to take off until Esther had dragged him into a store and had almost pried them from his feet.

His shoes now were a little worn about the toes, scuffed and dusty from daily wear. He didn't wear those shoes on jobs, of course. Those shoes were cleaned vigorously, and regularly, in case there was blood spattering them. Even the smallest amount could incriminate him. Cas shook away the old memories and looked up into the busy street, eyes flickering briefly to each individual person, gauging whether they were in a hurry, and even their mood. There was a woman walking with her head down, footsteps heavy and fast, indicating that she was in a bad mood, and Castiel stepped to the side to let her pass.

There was a tinkling sound to his right, and up two steps, was a door to a store, the outline of a spanner, flashing lazily in neon on the window beside it, though it wasn't obvious in the daylight. Castiel turned towards the sound of the bell that had been struck by the opening door, and he stopped in his tracks.

A man with long white hair tied back, and a scraggly grey beard hanging off in a strange point stood there, holding the white framed glass door open with one hand, his other shaking Dean's firmly. They were still talking as their hands dropped to their sides. The man finally left, pushing the door open all the way as he heaved his heavy frame down the concrete steps and onto the path. He hitched up his pants, pulling the belt far too far above his stomach, and cradled a black bag filled with clanging metal objects as he swaggered down the street.

Castiel watched the man leave before turning back to look through the glass door that had closed with another tinkle. He couldn't see much through the door, just the vague outline of shelves and objects. Everything else was obscured by a sticker of a red car and a cheerful man holding a spanner in one hand, and giving a thumbs up with his other. He moved forwards, stepping lightly up the steps and pushing open the door.

Inside it smelt musty and damp. There were bits of metal piled up in boxes, plants in one corner, hoses, electrical supplies, and garden ornaments. Dean was happily browsing through a box full or wires and things, lips pursed.

"Dean?" Castiel said quietly, shuffling towards the shelf. His eyes moved from item to item, automatically determining exactly how each hunk of metal or ball of string could be used to eliminate a target. He looked to the man whose head had snapped up, and all he saw was the target. For a while there, Dean had been a person, but spending so much time thinking about the steps he would take had changed the way he saw Dean. The man might as well have had a sign hanging around his neck that said 'kill me'.

"Hey, buddy!" Dean said cheerfully and waved a hand. "Great to see you again." He pulled a few things off the shelf and carried them over to the man who was leaning with his elbows on the counter, watching his customers with a bored expression. Dean payed for his things before nodding to Cas and stepping back outside. "What are you doing here, Cas?"

Castiel walked beside Dean, matching his pace as they turned back around the corner to get to the garage. "I did not have anything else planned, and I enjoyed the time I spent here yesterday," he lied, though he wasn't entirely sure that there wasn't some truth behind it.

The bag rustled loudly as they walked, and Dean rummaged around in it to search for something. He looked up in what Castiel thought was surprise, and stopped walking just before the garage driveway. "You… huh." He shook his head and stumbled back slightly as he made his way over to the stereo and turned the volume down. "Well, I'm about finished up here. I usually head out and get a drink before I head home… so…. You're welcome to join me." Dean pursed his lips and set his bag of metal things down on the rough edged, stained work bench.

He could hardly believe it. Dean had basically just completed step one for him. Castiel felt a wave of relief wash over him and he nodded in agreement. His stomach had been churning uncomfortably at the thought of being the one to ask. Just talking to the man was making his skin crawl and the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He lived alone, and that's how Castiel liked it. "That would be good, yes," he said, wincing at how the words came out forced.

* * *

So that's how Castiel came to be sitting at a barstool beside Dean Winchester, a beer sitting on the counter in front of him. He wasn't entirely certain of how he should proceed. The steps he had created had never gone into detail, and now that he was having a drink with Dean, he felt completely lost. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to block out the sounds of other peoples' conversations. He caught snippets and could easily sense the mood of a discussion, and based on that, how much longer they were likely to stay in the bar. After a few moments of counting and listening, he found himself to be right on most occasions.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. He'd been watching Castiel curiously as he sipped at his beer, eyebrows raised, creasing his brow slightly.

He snapped out of the daze he had been in, and focused on Dean again. "I… I am listening," Castiel said honestly, not sure how to explain what he'd been listening out for without driving Dean away, and driving him away would not help him to complete any of his other steps.

With a nod, Dean turned to look at the others in the bar, hunched over in intense discussions, or leaving back lazily and laughing too loud. Neither of those groups would be leaving in a hurry. It was the people arguing, or talking in bored tones that would be almost ready to collect their things and leave. Dean's gaze wandered back to Castiel. "Anyone ever told you you're a little weird?"

"Probably, yes. It would be unusual if a person was never told they were odd at some point in their life."

"Right…" The mechanic narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, Castiel following its movements carefully, analysing the body language as best he could, though it meant nothing to him. Perhaps Dean's lips were merely dry…

From Dean's tone of voice, Castiel could tell he was getting bored and uncomfortable. Castiel was feeling the same, but he was desperate to hold onto the conversation, to make Dean like him, even. "So," he began, pausing for a moment too long as he struggled for something to say. "What do you like doing, Dean?"

An eyebrow raised as Dean stared curiously at Castiel, and tapped his fingernails against his glass. "What do I like doing?" he repeated, and furrowed his brow in thought. "Well… Fixing cars… Hunting…" Dean trailed off and shrugged.

Images of deer and other innocent creature being hunted down by Dean made Cas shudder, and with what felt like a punch in the guts, he realised that what he himself did for a living, wasn't much different. It wasn't as if Castiel ever stopped to ask what it was that his targets had done wrong. He eliminated them blindly, and he almost enjoyed it.

Dean had noticed Castiel's shudder, and was eyeing him carefully. "You're not one of those nature freaks are you?" he asked, voice a little bitter as he smirked and drained his glass. After Castiel shook his head, Dean continued. "Because really, animals are killed all the time for food, and at least I give them a chance. Besides, I don't go often, like, twice a year." He shrugged once again and his jaw visibly tensed.

"I don't have anything against hunting," Castiel said, though that wasn't exactly true. There was part of him that separated humans from animals, and it seemed much crueller in his mind to kill animals. Humans weren't that great, anyway.

"Well… Good."

Castiel nodded and the awkward, uncomfortable silence took over again. He looked at Dean, and the man looked right back, and for a moment, Castiel remembered the way Dean had been when they'd bumped into each other. Castiel didn't think he would ever forget Dean's eyes, or that smile, or the way he had pushed through and pretended to be a cop. That was just one of those moments that you don't easily forget. Castiel cleared his throat and looked around. The bar was dimly lit, filled with loud sounds and a sort of smoke was hazing the air, though there was a few signs hanging on the dark walls that stated that smoking was prohibited.

Dean had turned to follow Castiel's gaze. His voice came out as a sigh. "Cas, man, I don't think you wanted to drink with me because you enjoy my company…" He set his glass down and licked at his lips again before starting to move from the bar stool.

His hand shot out in a feeble attempt to get the man to stay, but it soon fell to his side and his stomach dropped. "Dean, please," he almost whispered. "Please, I… My people skills are a little rusty, that's all."

"Right… Okay…" Dean nodded and gestured for the young lady behind the bar to pour him another drink. He relaxed back onto the stool and rested his elbows on the counter.

As time went by, conversation became more relaxed and friendly. Topics rolled into other topics, and Dean was soon listing off his favourite songs and giving Castiel scandalised glares when he found out that he knew none of them. They spoke about films, and once again, Cas knew none of them, so Dean started trying to explain the plot of one of his favourites. Castiel just sat there and listened, learning early on that things went easier if he asked questions and got Dean talking. The next time Castiel looked around the bar, it was empty, chairs were starting to be lifted onto newly cleaned tables, and a woman was asking them to leave.

"You want a ride home, Cas?" Dean asked as he clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel eyed Dean for a moment, and then looked down the road. It wasn't a long walk back to his place, so he shook his head with a 'thanks'. He turned his back on Dean without another word and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as he stalked off down the road. Hope was bubbling up inside of him. He could do this. He had completed the first step on his list without much difficulty, and the next steps would hopefully be just as easy.

When he made it back home, he skipped his dinner. He wasn't really in the mood, and though it destroyed his usual and familiar routine, he would survive. He didn't even read a few chapters of his book, just sat with his list in front of him and planned what he would do for the next few days. When he had a rough idea of when and how he would complete step two, he went to bed, lying awake on his back for hours as he stared up at the ceiling.


	5. Steps 2

It was raining. Cold, wet droplets of water splashed to the foot path, pooling in the imperfections and rippling out as a new one landed. The sky was grey, and the sun was all but blocked out, making it seem more like evening than lunch time. Dean's boots sloshed through the puddles, water trickling in through the holes as he called up Rufus to tell him he wouldn't be coming to work. Dean didn't work alone. He was there often by himself, but there were others, operating the tow truck and managing the books. His little garage was just the start of things, really. A block down, there was the large building with 'Singer Auto Repairs ' stamped across it in red, block letters. It was a bigger space, more professional, but Dean didn't like to work there, so he'd found his own space. He just hung around and tinkered with things half the time.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dad's worn leather jacket, taking comfort in the scent of whiskey, oil and dirt that still lingered on it. A smell so unique to his father, that Dean could almost feel the dead man standing beside him, arm around his shoulders, teaching him how to handle a rifle.

He honestly didn't think too much on the guy he'd properly met twice now. The only thing he couldn't keep out of his mind, were the cool, bright blue eyes that held very little warmth, and sent a shiver up Dean's spine. He thought Castiel was odd, sure, but maybe not in a good way. There were varying degrees of oddness, Dean thought, that ranged from 'special' to 'terrifying'. He wasn't sure where Cas was on that scale, but he definitely wasn't very far up the good end. He spoke as though he hadn't spoken with another human being in years, and that led Dean to coming up with wild theories. In the past few days, he had gone from deciding Cas was an alien, to calling him a robot.

Dean waded through another puddle that reached his ankles, feet kicking up mud that would stick to his worn, brown shoes, and would probably never be noticed. The reason he wasn't going into work? Sam. He had to go visit Sam. He didn't know why today seemed like the day to visit, but it was. He hadn't seen his little brother in months, and he never truly felt safe, or happy, without Sam by his side to piss him off. The last time they had spoken over the phone, Sam had claimed to be doing better. He had paid off many of his debts, and he was clean. Amelia was helping him through it. Or was that relationship over? Dean wasn't sure. He hoped that perhaps Sam would find Jess again. Jess had been good. She'd been a healthy person to have around, Dean liked her, and she made Sam happy.

Rufus growled at him, as usual, saying that they were already short staffed, and that if Dean wasn't careful, the garage would close down. Dean just laughed at him fondly; every syllable the man uttered reminding him of his own uncle, and Rufus' best friend. He shoved away his thoughts of Bobby, and stared intently as the speckled grey concrete moved past beneath his squelching feet. He tucked his phone away and rounded the corner to his bottom floor apartment.

He hadn't expected to see Castiel, standing there, dark hair plastered to his forehead as the rain poured down, soaking through and darkening the shoulders of that trench coat he always seemed to wear. Dean stared curiously at the figure as he slowed his pace, ignoring the water as it clung to his eyelashes. He watched Cas from a distance, feeling strangely drawn towards the man, and wanting to stay away from him at the same time.

Cas looked lost, eyes squinted against the pelting rain, and arms hanging loosely at his side, head twisting around as if he was looking for someone. He lowered his eyes to the ground, and Dean watched as his eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, casting a soft shadow and sending water droplets free to fall. For a moment, it was impossible to tell whether he was crying or if it was just raining on his face. There was a hunch to his shoulders, and his mouth hung open the slightest bit, creating a look of innocence.

Dean went up to him without really feeling in control of his feet. He was just carried forwards, and before he knew it, his hand was on the man's shoulder, and he was staring intently at him, licking some of the water from his lips before pressing them into a line. When Cas turned to him and looked up, he was once again struck by how icy those wide, blue eyes were. "It's raining," he said before he could stop himself, and he immediately felt like an idiot. _Of course it was raining. Cas already knew it was raining._

Castiel just nodded, not blinking, head cocking to the side curiously. His expression was impossible to read, but he was shivering slightly, and that was enough of an indicator for Dean to know that the cold autumn rain had soaked through his coat, and jacket, and the light-weight white button up shirt that tucked into his neat black trousers. On this day, he was wearing a crooked blue tie that brought out his eyes.

Dean shook that thought from his head and glanced down at his own grease stained jean with many holes in them, pockets nearly worn away from hours spent lying underneath cars. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, that he'd always liked the look of, thinking that it made his muscles more prominent, and a khaki green shirt hanging open, with buttons keeping the sleeves above his elbows. Over that was his dad's jacket. All rather standard clothing for him, but the jacket was keeping his shoulder and arms dry, and the rest of him didn't feel the cold so much.

"What are you doing here!?" he had to shout to be heard over the sound of the rain pelting against the walls and roofs of the surrounding buildings.

Castiel blinked, strange, childish innocence emanating from him. He looked around, head moving slowly. "I don't know," he said, voice quiet, awkward. "Do you live here?" He stared at the front door of the apartment building he had been standing outside.

It almost seemed as though it was an act, but Dean decided not to question it, running his tongue over his lips and shaking his head before he moved up to the door of his apartment and unlocked it. "You can't just stay out here. Come on in." he wasn't sure what made him extend the information, but Dean had always been one to look after people. He'd practically brought Sammy up on his own, and Cas had such a lost look about him that the older brother side of him was brought out. He pushed the door open and moved inside, pulling off his jacket and tossing over the back of a plain wooden chair that sat next to the door.

His apartment wasn't small, but it wasn't large. It had an open plan kitchen, dining and living room space the opened up from the shortest of entry corridors. The walls were painted a nice cream, and none of the pieces of furniture matched. There was a patchy brown couch sitting on front of a flat screen TV that hung on the wall, and a worn out grey armchair that sat perpendicular to it, a small class-topped coffee table sitting in front of them. The floor boards were covered in various different themed rugs, of all different shapes and sizes, and jackets and pizza boxes were strewn about the living space, beer bottles sitting on top of them. The dining table was just before the kitchen counter top. It was a rectangular table, of smooth, shining red wood with intricate patterns carved into the legs.

The kitchen was a mess, dishes stacked high in the sink, and a coating of grease covered the oven cook-top. The fridge didn't fit in its place properly, and it squeaked loudly whenever Dean opened it. He kept putting off cleaning the place.

"It's not much, but it's my home," Dean said with a cheesy half-grin as he gestured to the space. There was another hallway coming off it that led to the bathroom and his bedroom, with a few sliding door that hid cupboards. Dean glanced at Cas to see his reaction to the place, already knowing that the man wasn't a fan of untidiness.

Castiel just stared with his mouth hanging open and water droplets falling from his hair and onto the floor. He shuddered visibly, and Dean held back a little chuckle.

"I'll get us a beer," he announced with a smirk and moved off to the fridge, cringing at the loud wail the hinges gave out. The sound was like nails on a black board to him. Every damn time. He ran a hand over his face and took to beer bottles, handing one to Cas, who was still busy dripping on the floor. He raised his eyebrows at the man. "Don't just stand there, man, go put some music on or something. Kick your feet up, grab a book. Make yourself at home!" He gestured proudly to the large space, watching curiously as Castiel wandered off towards a small bookshelf with a photo frame sitting on it.

"Is this your brother?" he asked, voice strangely soft as he lifted the photo and examined it.

Dean moved up behind him even though he knew what photo it was. It was Sam, leaning on Dean's shoulder and making a point about how much taller he had gotten. They'd gone away for a week, strictly no work, and no women, just the two of them. Sam had been at Stanford then, and their father had still been alive. It had been a struggle for Dean to drag Sam out, but once he'd managed it, they'd had a great time. That was the last time Dean remembered either of them being truly happy. "Yeah," he mumbled, taking the photo from Cas' hands and setting it back down again. "Yeah, that's Sammy…" He trailed off as he looked to the watch on his wrist. He wasn't going to get to see Sam at this rate, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Cas to leave.

Castiel seemed to freeze up then, suddenly, and he looked to Dean, mouth pressed into a thin line. In a very serious voice he said, "Where can I find your bathroom," and Dean burst into laughter. Castiel cocked his head to the side, staring curiously. He really didn't get what had been funny, and that just made it funnier.

Dean finally managed to speak, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes and pointing breathlessly down the hallway. "The door right down the end," he wheezed out, not even sure why he was still laughing. He sighed and ruffled a hand through his hair, watching Castiel as he shuffled away with hunched shoulders.

He couldn't figure Cas out. The man was just so… different. He had a cold look in his eyes that gave Dean the creeps, but he wasn't an unpleasant person, just a weird one. Dean perched himself on the arm of his couch, scratching at his head.

He waited. He waited for what felt like a long time, before he sighed, and moved down the hall to his bathroom. "Cas, are you okay, buddy?" he called out, tapping lightly on the closed door. He got no reply, and worry gripped him, squeezing his heart in a way that was _not_ normal for a guy he'd just met.

_It was those eyes._

Dean tried the door handle. It was unlocked, and swung open to reveal the white tiled bathroom, toilet sitting in the corner. The room was empty. Dean scowled and moved into the bathroom, as if he thought Cas would be hiding in the shower, or stuffed dead into the cupboard under the sink. Dean frowned and went back out , peering into his room, and the small study/spare room, that was crammed full of junk.

Castiel was no where.

Castiel was gone.


	6. Step 3

Cas had shut the bathroom door audibly before he had dodged into a room that stuck off the corridor, and was clearly Dean's bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the floor was hardly visible. Castiel itched to clean it up, but it was not his house, and he was not here to meddle in that way. There was a window next to the cluttered desk that sat at the joining of two walls, it was open a bit, and could easily be pushed open if Castiel had to make a quick escape. He easily calculated the necessary steps to get out of the window, and away from the house, before he turned to the desk itself. There was a simple photo frame sitting on it, with a picture of a smiling woman. She was pretty, Cas thought, though he really wasn't the best judge. Castiel opened one of the drawers silently, lifting things in search of something. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd know when he found in.

In the third drawer down, was a pile of CDs. Cas looked through them, memorising the titles and artists, so that he could look them up later. It seemed to him that music was something he and Dean could easily talk about. It wasn't that Cas didn't listen to music. He was actually rather fond of the Beatles, amongst other things, but he never got the chance to listen an ymore. There were few songs he could recall all the lyrics to any more. His job had taken over his life. Sometimes he wouldn't sleep. Trailing after his targets. He wouldn't leave them until he had eliminated them. So why had he let Dean go? Sure, he'd been planning on doing it later, but he had hesitated. He had let Dean see him.

Cas looked through all the CDs, before quickly, and silently moving onto the next drawer. There was an old, leather bound diary, filled with neat, scrawling handwriting and sketches of amazing things, faces that Cas assumed came from dreams. He flicked through the pages, trying to work out what was written down, but it all seemed like gibberish to him, some sort of story about fanciful creatures, amongst tales about two boys. Dean and Sam Winchester. Cas turned back to the front and found the owner's name, biting his lip and debating reading more of John Winchester's diary. Perhaps he could find out what Sam had done to deserve having his older brother killed.

Lost in thought, he slowly slid the journal back into the dusty, cobweb filled drawer that was empty of all other things. As he started pulling out the third drawer, fingers hooking under the cold, metal handle, something was pulling him backwards. The drawer came out at a speed that sent its contents fluttering around the room, and floating slowly to the ground, paper flying everywhere, but Castiel managed to keep his hold anyway. He let it go softly, and it hit the floor with a dull 'thunk'. His hands reached behind him, arms lifted over his head, and clasped around a strong arm, thick with muscles that flexed as the lifted his weight. Another arm came around his middle, keeping him from struggling, and Cas knew that he couldn't call out. He tried to pull away uselessly, kicking a leg back, but his feet were off the ground, and he was being dragged backwards through the small window. His back scraped painfully against the frame, sharp corners, digging into him, tearing small holes in his favourite coat.

"What are you doing here, Castiel?" Someone purred in his ear, low enough that if someone were standing just a metre away, they would not hear. The man had his hands in Castiel's shirt, and was pushing him up against an outside wall of the house, watching with an amused twinkle in his eye as Cas tried to gain his footing.

Cas' eyes were wide, and he clawed at the hands holding him. He wanted to be free. If there was anything he hated more than a mess, it was not being able to move. He hated being constricted, confined to small places, or held in place by something or someone much stronger than him. He took deep breaths through his nose, chest heaving, fingernails raking along smooth, pale skin, drawing blood. "I am… I am eliminating my target," he hissed at the dark eyed man.

Inias smirked, loosening his grip and watching as the man wobbled and fell into the dirt at his feet. "Looks more like you're becoming friends."

"I… I am getting close to him, so that I can… eradicate him. I did speak to Naomi about this…" Cas scowled, picking himself up, and looking up at the young man who was still a good inch taller than him.

A stiff laugh escaped the other man's throat. "Naomi? Naomi sent me here to deal with this, Castiel. You can go home." He rested a hand on Cas' shoulder, fingers gripping on just a little too tight, digging in, and leaving little bruised spots that Castiel would find later.

Cas thought of home. An empty house with packing boxes, each labelled, each sorted out. It was where he lived, but he had hardly made it a home. If he truly wished to make it a home, he would have put up more shelves, and neatly stacked things, instead of just leaving them. "I don't understand," he mumbled after a moment of confusion. He had been sent to watch Dean. Naomi had sent _him_ to deal with this. He had been forgiven for his mistake, and now he was amending it. Dean was just a mistake. Nothing important. Cas _had_ to take care of this. He scrunched up his nose in that way he always did when he was trying to understand, and his eyes twitched, growing narrower in a jerky movement, as his lips parted.

"Oh Castiel… You will never understand." He laughed again, a cold sound that made Cas turn to look back to the house. "Naomi is rather, shall we say, changeable. We do not question her, and we do not fail."

"But I haven't… failed, I mean. I can still fix this." Castiel could hear his heart pounding so fast that it made him feel dizzy. He didn't understand. He was losing his chance. If he didn't do this, then… well, he didn't know what would happen then. He didn't even know if there would be a then, or if he would be seen as expendable.

"Leave, Castiel. Leave me to do my job. I will kill Winchester," he said in a commanding voice, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flat, and cold. "Stand aside." Inias' voice dropped to something akin to a growl, and his eyes narrowed threateningly.

Cas thought back to the green eyes that had burned onto his retinas, to the warm chuckle of the man who lived alone in that disaster of a house. He thought back to the little lines that had formed at the corner of his eyes when he had smiled genuinely, to the young boy with his even younger brother, pulling a face at the camera, to the pretty woman who sat on Dean's desk, the only thing free of dust in that entire room. It was clearly loved. He couldn't help but picture those green eyes staring at the photograph for hours on end, committing the kind face to memory, thumbs rubbing over the glass protecting it as if it was all that kept him from the real person. He found himself smiling sadly at the image, and his chest tightened, aching at the thought of those bright green eyes, lifeless, void of all light and laughter. "No," he whispered, voice nothing but a breath.

"What was that?"

"No," he said a little more clearly, and turned to look back at the house, just as he heard footprints in the room, and a deep voice swearing in an impossibly irritated manner. Cas shrugged simply, and shook his head. "I will not move aside for you, Inias This man has done nothing wrong." He couldn't keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried. The words formed of their own accord, and suddenly there was a fist slamming into his stomach, causing him to double over, as if on reflex. All the breath rushed from his lungs, and he wheezed, trying to get it back. Before he could, however, there was another blow, smashing into his ribs and knocking him backwards into the wall. His head snapped back at the force, hitting the wall with enough force to make his vision go blurry.

"There are many ways I could dispose of you, Castiel," Inias murmured, hooking his fingers into Cas' shirt in order to pull him to his feet. "But I do not want to be doing this, so I will give you time to change your mind." He gave Cas a shake, watching his head rolling back before slamming him against the wall again.

Castiel tried to recover. He tried to pull himself to his feet, and say no, keep his ground, but there was a sharp pain in his eye, and a force that sent him spinning. He could feel blood dripping from a wound on the back of his head, clotting in his hair, and sticking it in a messy tangle. Cas looked up with vision that was blurring around the edges, and saw Inias coming towards him. "Inias, please. Friend, please," he begged, cringing into the wall, eyes fearful.

Inias never made another move though, as he was quickly tossed backwards, rough hands shoving him away. Dean was standing there, sunlight peeking through the clouds and shining down on him as if he was sent by God himself.

Castiel reached out an arm weakly, not sure what he was aiming to do, but it worked, and Dean was soon helping him to his feet. "Th-Thank you," he sighed, voice sticking in his throat. He leaned on Dean, head spinning, eye swelling up and limiting his vision.

Dean shot him a look, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. It was a look that said 'You're insane, why am I even talking to you?', and it stung, but Cas ignored that. Dean cleared his throat, and tore his gaze away from Cas, one arm around the man's waist to keep his legs from falling out. "You know," he said with a breathless laugh, "for a moment there, I thought you were looking through my stuff." He shook his head as if it was ridiculous. Cas hid the look of guilt easily, focusing on the physical pain in the back of his head. The pain that threatened to white everything out and send him tumbling into darkness.

"Your door was open… I just stuck my head in, and I saw… him… looking through your window." He lied easily. It was smooth and believable thanks to years of practise. "I did not mean to invade your privacy."

Dean scoffed, and looked back at the man, who to his knowledge, was merely picking himself up off the ground.

Cas knew different. He could see him with his phone in hand, explaining to someone that Dean Winchester was being protected by one of their own. Castiel chewed at the inside of his lip, and looked at Dean. What was it about those eyes that confused him so much? What was it about Dean that made him different?


	7. In Danger

Back inside, Dean forced Castiel to sit on the couch, tilting the man's chin this way and that to get a better look at his injuries. Dean had no idea what had happened orb why it had happened at all, and Cas could tell. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were pursed, rough fingers gently moving over the bruised skin.

"You don't need to do this, Dean," Cas said quietly, voice hushed and raspy. He was still trying to get his breath back, chest heaving. He finally managed to take a deep breath, ribs aching, bruises moving and stinging in the dull way that bruises do. He was grateful for Dean's help, but the fact that he was still in his house at all brought to life the flame of guilt, burning through him, and making his head ache. He shouldn't be in the house of the man he'd tried to kill… and now there were people after him. Naomi, and Inias, and Nathaniel, and God knows who else, were all out for his blood.

Dean glared silently at Castiel, before moving off into his kitchen, rummaging through the freezer to search for an appropriate amount of frozen peas to use as an icepack.

Castiel clasped his hands in his lap, and shut his eyes, ignoring the throbbing feeling in his eyes. He couldn't see from it. His right eye had already swollen up so much that his eye couldn't physically open much further than to look like a tiny slit. He was yet to look at it, so all he knew, was that it hurt, and it was swollen. There was no telling whether or not it was bruised yet, though it would undoubtedly become so. It was the first time he'd realised that it wasn't raining any more. He hadn't noticed the lack of being wet when he'd been dragged out, and only now, sitting on the couch, listening to the silence in soggy clothes, did he realise that the clouds were starting to part, and rays of sun were peeking through the window, warming his skin.

"So what was all that about, man?" Dean asked cautiously, giving Cas a different, confused, almost fascinated look as he came back in with the peas, wrapped in a towel. He was carrying a bowl of warm water, with a clean, blue cloth hanging over the side of it, half hanging into the water. "Who the hell was that?"

"That… Was Inias," he said softly, opening his one good eye to peer at Dean, who sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. "Do not worry about it. He just doesn't like me." Cas shook his head vaguely, too caught up in trying to figure out a plan from staying alive. He couldn't stay in his house. They knew where he lived, and could easily pick the lock, or even smash a window. But he couldn't stay out in the open. They wanted to kill him, and would have people watching him at all times of the day. A sniper or a bomb waiting for him, a knife in the chest as someone jostled past him. He didn't even know all of them. There were so many threats he didn't know about. He had no options. Castiel knew that he was going to die.

"Cas. Cas? Cas," Dean repeated over and over, waving a hand in front of Castiel's vacant eyes until he snapped out of it. When Cas made a confused grunting sound, Dean rolled his eyes, and dipped the cloth in the warm water. "I asked you what that guy has against you. Who is he to you?" Dean dabbed at a cut around the edge of the swollen part of Cas eye, and winced sympathetically, lips pursed in a look that Cas soon realised was the natural, relaxed state of his face.

Cas smiled at it vaguely, looking over all the soft creases of Dean's face, his freckles, so lightly dusted over his skin. "He… I work with him. I didn't do something I was supposed to." Castiel shrugged, taking a breath that made his ribs ache. He shut his eyes, still trying to sort things out. He couldn't stay with Dean, because it was wrong to be friends with a man you had wished to kill, right? But he couldn't leave him either, because Dean still had his name marked down for death.

Dean's mobile phone started ringing, but he let it go to voicemail, cleaning Cas' face of blood, and pressing the bag of peas to it, trying to keep the swelling down. He knew that it was probably Sam, wondering why his brother hadn't been to visit him as he had promised. Dean stared right into Castiel's eyes as they narrowed, causing his nose to crinkle, and a completely innocent look to come over him. "Dude, what the hell kind of guy would want to beat you up?" he laughed, trying not to notice the look Cas gave him.

_This isn't fair_, Cas thought, moving his hand to take over holding the frozen peas to his face. It wasn't fair that Dean was so… charming. Cas should have been able to kill him when he'd had the chance. He had the chance now. It would be easy. There were plenty of objects lying around that would cause damage if swung with enough force, and if all else failed, Cas had his hands. He wasn't as weak as he seemed, and could easily over power Dean if he had the element of surprise. He couldn't do it, though. He couldn't forget that Dean wasn't actually deserving of his arranged death. It was just some ridiculous plan to get back at his brother for… Something. Something that Dean probably didn't want to talk about. "Do you like the Beatles?" he asked, not entirely sure how the words reached his mouth before the thought had crossed his mind.

With a shrug, and a vague look of surprise, Dean shrugged. He blinked a few times, as if he hadn't fully processed Castiel's words, then he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, followed by the stroke of a thumb. "They're alright, I guess. My brother likes them more… About the only decent band that Sammy likes. Why, do you like them?" Dean seemed to relax, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning in in interest, green eyes widening slightly, and eyebrows raising the tiniest bit. He was clearly relieved for the topic. Music was something he could talk about. When Castiel didn't reply, just looked up at him from under his dark eyelashes, Dean looked down at his knuckles, flexing his hand and noting the aching pain. It had been a long time since he'd punched someone. He smirked to himself, and shook the hand out as he looked at Cas again.

"I only really like one song," Castiel answered finally, pulling the make shift icepack away from his face, prodding at the swollen area experimentally, not really fazed by the pain. It was more the inconvenience of not being able to see clearly that worried him. Without waiting for Dean's reply, he got to his feet, lifting his shirt to examine his bruised ribs. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, but Castiel ignored him. "You should go stay with your brother for a while. I'm sure he would enjoy your company, and it is really not nice around here at this time of year."

"I should go… What? What are you talking about?" Dean stared in confusion, standing up as well. He was only a little taller than Cas, but somehow the man seemed to have the innocence of a child. It didn't reflect the cold, flat look in his eyes. "No way. I go to Sam for visits, but he doesn't want me around for ever. Had enough of that when we were kids."

"Please Dean. It's safer," Castiel insisted, reaching out, bag of peas dropping from his hands, and onto the floor, moisture staining it a slightly darker colour. He took Dean's hands, and squinted up at him.

Dean looked down at the hands that covered his, and he scowled, his eyebrows slowly knitting together in a look of concern. He took one hand from Cas' and scratched at his jaw, dragging his fingernails over the skin as he obviously tried to figure out what was going on. Because something was definitely going on, and Dean was worried. Cas got beaten up by a guy who seemed angry as hell, and now Castiel was telling Dean to go away. Dean pursed his lips, and slowly took both his hands out of Cas' grip. He almost found himself missing their warmth, but his stomach was churning, and it seemed to be dropping all the way down to his feet. "Safer than what?" he asked cautiously, raising his hands almost as if to surrender.

"Being here."

Cas looked so honest that it was almost unsettling, and Dean found himself calming, drawn towards the even, calm sound of Castiel's deep voice. The older man's eyes were almost begging Dean to just blindly trust him, and Dean found himself wanting to do just that. Which was ridiculous, of course, and Dean knew that. He sighed, and shook his head. "What's so wrong with being here? Why is it so dangerous?"

The tapping of rain on the roof started up again, a soft, steady rhythm, constant dripping, and more likely dropping from an over-hanging branch than the clouds themselves. Castiel listened to it, focusing on it as he struggled to string words into a sentence that wouldn't scare Dean, wouldn't frighten him away. Though he knew just as well as Dean did, that feeling so drawn to a complete stranger wasn't normal, Cas couldn't help it. If he hadn't taken on the job, he could have lived his life without knowing who Dean Winchester was. Dean would have died, and the world would have kept on turning. Now, though after trying, and failing, and actually spending some time with the man… Castiel knew that he couldn't let anything happen to him. He didn't want to leave his side, which was also stupid, because Cas himself could be assassinated at any time. "My… Colleagues… From an old job, they… They are not happy about me quitting. They are dangerous people and now they want me dead, and because I have been… conversing with you, they want you dead too."

_Fantastic, Castiel. Way to not come off as creepy_, he thought to himself, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn't that hard, really. Castiel wasn't an eye roller. He absent-mindedly lifted his shirt to examine the new bruises blooming on his skin, poking them with a detached interest that sent Dean scratching his head again.

Dean rubbed at his eyes with his pointer finger and thumb, rubbing his hand down over his face and bringing his hand closed when it reached his mouth. "They want to kill me," he breathed out, thinking over the information, tossing it around and around in his mind, in the hopes that it would start making sense soon. "And you… You don't want me to die."

"Of course not. I… I would never wish harm upon you," Cas said seriously, taking hold of Dean's arm, fingers clutching at the man's jacket almost as though it was a security blanket.

"Right… So… But you have to come away with me too, right? They're trying to kill you. First and foremost. So wherever I go, you have to come." Dean nodded to himself slowly as the ideas started clicking together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. "Besides, I can't keep myself safe from a bunch of strangers," he continued when it seemed as though Cas was going to argue. "And I can't go to see Sam. It'd put him in danger… Looks like it's a road trip." He grinned; face lighting up at the prospect, clapping his hand on Castiel's shoulder twice before his hand travelled down. As he began walking past, he tapped Cas' ass in a purely platonic way, but he blushed anyway, and headed into his room.

Cas just stared at him, mouth slowly falling open in a small O shape. A small zap travelled up his spine at Dean's touch, and he clenched his jaw, shaking his head. A road trip… It was a ridiculous idea, but it would keep Dean out of the way, and make them harder to trace. Slowly, he spun on his heel, and shuffled down the corridor, poking his head around the corner into Dean's room hesitantly. "Dean?" he asked quietly. "Where would we go?"

The room was a mess, loose pieces of paper fluttering around thanks to the breeze coming in through the open window that Dean was in the process of shutting. "I dunno, man," he mumbled, feeling pretty good about the idea of travelling. It was something he was used to. He moved around a lot after his mum died, so it was something that he felt comfortable with. Even more comfortable, perhaps, than the little life he'd set up for himself here. Though he had a job, and his brother was safe, drug free, and happily living with his girlfriend, whoever it was at that point in time. He turned back to face Castiel, and folded his arms over his chest, licking at his lips. It was almost as if everything locked down, and Dean's expression became stern. What was he doing? Why the hell did he trust a complete stranger? "Get out," he whispered suddenly, watching Cas' features contort into a confused, taken aback look.

"What? Dean, I-" Cas choked out, shaking his head.

"Get. Out. Of. My. House," Dean said clearly, and slowly, so that Castiel would hear every syllable. He narrowed his eyes, and shook his head slightly. He wouldn't admit to being scared, but Cas' sincerity, and the way his eyes had widened, made Dean's insides twist, and his heart leap into his throat. But Dean wasn't about to just accept Castiel's explanation for this sudden need to move away. He wouldn't uproot his whole life, for some guy with ridiculously blue eyes that just happened to catch his attention. "Get out," he said once more.

Cas stumbled out of the room, not entirely sure what was happening. One moment Dean had been cleaning his wounds, and holding a cold pack to his swollen eye, and the next, he was ordering him away? It didn't make sense. "Why?" he asked, tripping over a few things in the corridor as he stepped backwards with Dean's every step forwards.  
Dean huffed a laugh that held no amusement. "You come into my house, get beat up by some asshat, and now you're telling me that _I'm _in danger!? You can't do that, man. That's not how friendships work."

Cas flinched at the words, and saw anger building in Dean, the slowly deepening crease between his eyebrows that formed with his frown. He couldn't leave Dean alone, but the man was going to explode, and Cas wasn't ready for another fight. So he backed out of Dean's home, and let the door be slammed in his face, muttering an 'I'm sorry' as soon as it was shut.


	8. Attack

_Blood seeping between fingers, hands slipping in a struggle to put pressure on the fresh wound, shirt darkening, clinging to the torn flesh, Dean was dying. Castiel had warned him, had tried to save his life. He had tried his best, but here Dean was, slumped against a solid concrete wall, fighting to keep himself from bleeding out, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. The pain didn't matter. It was the loss of blood that would kill him eventually. Cas knelt beside him, linking their fingers carefully, placing enough pressure on Dean's abdomen to slow the bleeding and keep him alive for just a few minutes longer. Cas' hands, his own stomach, the knife that hand fallen from his hands, all covered in blood. Dean's blood. It had been so easy. Castiel was to be forgiven now. He had corrected his mistake and the life draining from Dean's eyes would restore Castiel's own life to its original state, and keep anybody from being hurt unnecessarily. He felt bad about it, there was no doubt. He had grown fond of Dean and killing him had sent him crying, bawling and now, Cas was… What was he doing? Was he trying to save him? Or was he merely prolonging his life so he wouldn't feel so… evil. He could say that he tried to save Dean if he just forced the man to hold on for a little while longer._

Dean's eyes were wide, mouth hanging open, coughing up blood that dribbled from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and neck, smearing. He had no energy to push Castiel away, though it was clear that he wanted to. He had a look of pure hatred in his eyes that made Cas' heart ache. He knew that any effort he made was pointless, and that it was very likely that Naomi would never forgive him. He sighed and leaned forwards, kissing Dean's forehead, then his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears. Then it was over, and Dean was gone, slipping from between Cas fingers, the man's hands closing just a second too late to catch him. That was that. That was the end.

* * *

Castiel gasped as he pulled Dean out of the way, the thin blade narrowly missing him. He stumbled, disorientated for a moment, lost in thought. It wasn't him holding the knife, he reminded himself. Dean wasn't dying, there was no blood. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to protect Dean. It was ridiculous that Dean should die for something his brother had done, Cas thought. He wished he could deal with the person who came up with that idea. He shook his head and took a deep breath, quickly knocking the blade from the woman's hand.

She gave him a pained look, catching Cas by the shoulder and stooped to pick up the knife, subtly slipping it back up her shirt sleeve. "You don't have to do this, Castiel. You do have a choice in this."

"Ester… I… I have to keep Dean alive," he said, though he wasn't sure why. Dean had rudely forced him out of his house without any really obvious reason, and yet, Castiel was still ready to jump in front of a knife.

Dean watched the pair, staring from them, to where Castiel's hand was pressed to his chest. He hadn't seen the guy for a whole day, and had actually found himself missing the oddly stiff speech of the other man. But he hadn't missed this. He hadn't missed having that question looming over his head. Had Cas bee telling the truth? Was Dean really in danger? He hated the idea of it. He thought that would have all stopped when Sam got clean, but no. Apparently not, because that knife had been for him. He shuddered and pushed away Castiel's hand, looking around warily.

Cas spared him a glance, taking his hand back and nodding to Ester, who replied with a warning. It was all very mysterious and vague, so Castiel could only guess that she'd been telling him the next person sent after them wouldn't be so easy to catch. Cas had followed Dean. He wasn't going to keep that a secret. He'd followed Dean for a whole day, easily staying to the shadows and getting lost amongst the crowds. He'd even organised a few costume changes along the way in case Dean got suspicious. The man hadn't noticed a thing, not even when Cas had go the hiccups and everyone had turned to look at him. Now he stood between Ester and Dean, staring at her as he walked away, hips swinging in a way that made Castiel roll his eyes.

Dean looked Cas up and down, taking note of the bright, colourful bruises that nearly concealed his face, and his eye, which wasn't swollen anymore, but was still blue, and looked to be causing Cas some pain. He stayed back, though, remembering why he hadn't just hopped into his Impala and run away with Cas. That would be stupid. Blindly trusting a handsome guy with pretty eyes was probably the stupidest thing to do in any situation. Going on a road trip with someone involved trust, even when that road trip was supposedly going to save your life. He stubbornly clenched his jaw and folded his arms over his chest.

"Dean, we have to get inside. We have to get away from here. Please, Dean," Castiel begged, the tone of voice sounding unusual to him. Cas didn't beg. Not for anything. Occasionally, he would _make_ people beg, but he was never the one doing the begging. Until now. His chest tightened uncomfortably and he found himself wishing that he could just lift up Dean and take him away, transport them to Scotland or something, somewhere far enough away that they would never be found. The image of Dean's blood coating his hands, shining in the sunlight as it dripped into a puddle on the ground flashed in front of his eyes, leaving an image burned onto them. He blinked the spots away and took Dean's arm in a strong grip. The concrete slabs of ground sped by under his feet, lines and cracks all blurring together as Cas pulled Dean along. He stumbled once on the threshold of some random café, and stopped. He quickly glanced around and let Dean go, hoping he would follow when he pushed open the door, sending a small bell tinkling. "Your suggestion of a road trip was a very good idea," he said, panting slightly as he got back his breath. He led them over to a table that wouldn't be visible from through the windows, and sat down, bouncing his knees nervously, fingers clasping and unclasping on the table top. He looked to the other man, who was sitting quietly, expression unreadable, before hurrying to stare at the table.

The white and grey flecked, fake marble table held no interest for Dean, clearly. He was uncertain about this entire situation, and Sammy's past was coming back to him, shoving him roughly in unwanted ways. He tried to shake it off, but only found himself focusing on Cas, who was just as confusing. The creepy stares, the charming smiles, the innocent look he had perfected, all confused Dean. After a moment of silently watching, he let out a huff and called over the waitress, grinning at her and ordering two coffees, one for each of them. She was overly nice to Dean, laughing loudly at what wasn't at all funny before moving off to prepare their order. Dean rolled his eyes and laughed at the dumbfounded look on Cas' face. "It happens to me a lot," he said in reply to the unasked question. It did happen a lot. It happened too much, but Dean found himself flattered by it every single time, so he wasn't going to complain. He dispelled the awkward silence with a loud cough, and somehow – God knows how – managed to get an actual conversation going. Within half an hour, Dean and Castiel managed to talk about things from religion to cats. The casual banter helped Dean to relax, tension leaking from him. Two coffees later, Dean was discussing cars and Castiel was listening, and it all seemed very natural. It had eased into the sort of conversation that wasn't normal of almost perfect strangers.

"Me and Sam have our initials carved into it, you know. Even when we were on the move, I guess it was like a home to us," Dean was saying, circling back to their previous topic that seemed to revolve around run away fathers and moving around a lot. It was nice to know that they actually had something in common, even if it was one of the crappier things that Dean had had to suffer through. He was about to start another conversation when there was a loud buzz in his ear that left it ringing, and a small hole dug into the wall right next to Castiel's head.

Cas' eyes widened and he imagined himself tipping forwards, head crashing down on the table, body falling limp. He was sure the pain wouldn't have lasted long. When he snapped back to reality, Dean was pulling him down, under the table. Windows were smashing, glass scattering everywhere, coating the floor. Blood trickled throughout the mess, bystanders with bloody arms, legs, faces, screaming, running. They were all trying to get out at once, forcing through the open door, shrieks ringing in Cas' ears. He covered them, unable to think clearly as Dean's arm looped around his shoulder, keeping him hidden beneath the table. Perhaps he should have pretended to collapse. Maybe they would have left him alone if that were the case. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and he shrank back, pressing into the wall and taking deep breaths. He hadn't had the gun turned on him in his life. "The first shot failed, why are they still shooting?" he asked himself. He could picture himself in the shooter's place, crouched in the ideal place with a relatively clear view of the target. He would have taken his time to aim, trying to get as exact as he could, taking deep breaths to calm himself and steady his hands. Adjusting his stance, he would have focused his aim even closer to his target and pulled the trigger. Now, if he'd been shooting, and he'd missed his first shot, he would not have just kept shooting. That was the action of a desperate man, not a collected man with finely tuned skills. Cas shook his head and looked to Dean, taking hold of his jacket. "We have to go out the back. Run when I say, okay?"

That was met with a nod and a distressed widening of the eyes.

As the random shooting died down and the last few panes of glass shattered to the floor, Cas shifted his weight, moving from sitting to crouching. "Okay," he said as if he were preparing himself. The shooting stopped and Cas wasted no time. "Run!" He hissed to Dean, letting him go so that he could slip out from under the table and make for the back door. He glanced behind to Dean as the shooting started up again, but he didn't stop running. They both made it through to the kitchen safely, pausing to catch their breath as the cooks and waiting staff stared at them in shock. Before they could say anything, Cas pulled Dean into a run again, pushing their way out the back door and into a dusty, kind of smelly alleyway.

"Okay. Okay, I believe you. I believe you. We're in danger," Dean panted out and rested his hands on his knees. "_Why_ do they want me dead? How are they planning on killing me? How the hell are we going to get away from them?" He listed off his questions, wincing and gasping as Cas headed off again, hardly out of breath. He stumbled after him.

"They want you dead because it's their job to want you dead. You don't need to know more than that. Now, why don't we go on that road trip you suggested?"


End file.
